


The Weight On Us

by dansunedisco



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-23
Updated: 2015-03-23
Packaged: 2018-03-19 02:27:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3592911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dansunedisco/pseuds/dansunedisco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>She knows she’s out of control. She sees it in the way his eyes soften, gaze flickering across her face. But she needs this. She needs him. To ground her, tether her anger and hate and sadness to something real, something tangible.</i>
</p><p>After everything she's done, Clarke tries to cope with her decisions--with a little help from Bellamy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Weight On Us

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [elschaaf](http://elschaaf.tumblr.com) for beta'ing this for me!
> 
> Fair warning: this is mostly porn with a heap of angsty feels.
> 
> Written for [Marie](http://loveandlight04.tumblr.com) for my tumblr fic giveaway! Hope you enjoy this!

“I’m not going to break,” she snaps, hand fisting into Bellamy’s curls. “Don’t treat me like I will.” 

She knows she’s out of control. She sees it in the way his eyes soften, gaze flickering across her face. But she needs this. She needs _him._ To ground her, tether her anger and hate and sadness to something real, something tangible. It’s been weeks since, and the nightmares have gotten worse, the forgiveness he promised her growing more elusive every day. But she doesn’t want forgiveness tonight. She just wants to forget. And she knows he can give that to her.

Her fingers tighten in his hair, just once, to let him know she’s serious. It’s enough to flip the switch, must be, because he grabs her wrists, tugs them down to her side. The eye contact is unwavering between them, his soft look gone and replaced with something hotter than fire. He waits a beat, then walks her backwards with purpose. Clarke’s breaths grow ragged up with each step. She lets herself be pulled into his gravity, skin tingling with the newfound heat crackling between them. It’s never been like this before. By the time he presses her solid and sure against the unyielding metal of the dropship, she’s almost panting.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asks. 

There’s space between them still, and Clarke arches up into his hold. He’s hard, she realizes. Her heart pounds in her chest at the thought of what’s to come, but she says, “ _Yes_.”

Bellamy presses tight against her, no further questions. He twists her arms up above her head, kicks her legs apart; slots his thigh between them. Clarke sighs into it, presses up onto the balls of her feet to better feel his weight, tilts her face up to his--but he doesn’t kiss her. He just leans down to press his forehead against hers, eyes closed.

She swallows, fingers flexing against his hands on her wrists. The closeness, the shared breathing, is almost too much; bordering on something like intimacy, the opposite of what she wants. But it’s good, too, the wait. Her chest burns with anticipation, each second she waits ratcheting up the tension, until finally-- _finally,_ he moves his face and drags his lips down her throat. His stubble catches at her delicate skin, and she groans at the sudden heat of his mouth, voice cracking as his tongue flicks steadily over her pulse point. But it’s not nearly enough.

“Please,” she breathes-- _begs_ \--and then he’s dropping her hands and slotting his under her thighs, hauling her up against the wall. He bites down on the join of her neck and shoulder, teeth sharp and painful but _so good_. Exactly what she needs, she thinks, as her hands scrabble for purchase against his shoulders, his neck. She grinds down into him, legs wrapping around his waist easily, head falling back at the heat pooling between her thighs. “ _Please_ ,” she says again, hands sinking back into his hair. 

When he kisses her, finally, it feels like a spark struck against kindling, like gasoline thrown into the fire. She’s consumed by him, his lips, his tongue, his teeth, her moans coming unbidden. She’s gripping him hard enough to bruise, she’s sure of it, but Bellamy only rolls his hips into hers steadily, the friction sweeter than anything she’s had. He keeps kissing her like she’s the oxygen he’s been waiting for all his life. And it could be five minutes or five hours, but suddenly he’s spinning her around, dropping her unceremoniously onto one of the leftover cots. She bounces once, and then it’s a race to get rid of her clothes. She toes her boots off, socks next, and yanks her pants and underwear down over her ass, kicking until they’re all the way off her legs, gasping when Bellamy drops straight to his knees and drags her to the edge like she weighs nothing. 

“ _God_ ,” she cries out, thighs tightening around Bellamy’s ears. It feels like electricity shoots up her spine with each stroke of his tongue against her, incredible and impossible in how damn good it feels. She heard about oral, but this-- _this_ is something else. Her hand darts down to fist in his hair once again, back bowing off the cot when he slips one thick finger inside of her and crooks it just right. It’s not enough, but she is so close-- _so close._ He keeps going, rumbling against her, like he knows just how far off she is. She pants up at the ceiling, eyes clenched shut, her free hand winding into the threadbare blanket above her head, letting the waves of pleasure crest over her shamelessly. She peaks with a soundless moan moments later, almost bucking Bellamy off with the strength of her hips, but he holds her down with strong hands; brings her back down to reality with slow, soft nips to her inner thigh. 

“Get up here,” she pants, “and take off your clothes.” She’s not nearly done. 

He obliges, of course, and she only has a second to admire his body before he descends on her with a kiss. It’s slower than before, but no less heated, her taste strong and erotic on his tongue. She lifts her knees up, knocking against his ribs; her breath catching when she feels his cock slide, hot and heavy, between her sensitive folds. She’s wet, so wet, and she knows all she needs to do is tilt her hips an inch for him to enter her, but she waits; lets Bellamy take the reins.

The fire’s back again, licking at her bones, but she can wait. His body against hers, the two of them moving in tandem, is a soothing balm against the turbulence that have filled her life since she stepped foot on the ground. She feels settled, or as close to it as she’s going to get, and she knew he’d be the one to get her there. She _knew_ he would pull through for her, like he has in every other way. She bites down onto his bottom lip, rakes blunt nails down his back. She drinks in his groans, answering with her own satisfied sigh. 

“Clarke,” he murmurs, in-between trailing open-mouthed kisses along her collarbone. He pulls back almost reluctantly, braced above her, though his hips are still twitching against hers like he can’t help but move. “Are you sure?” 

If Clarke’s being honest? She’s not sure she’s ready for anything anymore. But she trusts him, and she needs him, so she nods, just once.

Bellamy sits back on to his heels, and she props herself up onto her elbows, shivering at the sight of him. He’s beautiful--and different, in so many small ways, than he was the first day they met--and she’s glad that it’s him here with her. Glad that he’s willing to share this burden, another in a long line of joint decisions that feel too heavy to carry alone on any given day. He pulls her towards him then, presses her thigh back against her chest as he straightens out her other leg to come around his hip. She lies back as he sinks into her with a slow, measured roll of his hips, her hands flying back up to the blanket when he skates against something inside of her that makes her toes curl.

She gasps, eyes flicking up to meet Bellamy’s, then nearly rolls her eyes at his knowing smirk.

“Feels good?” he asks. 

Clarke hisses, kicks her heel against his backside like a spur. “You know it does,” she growls out, but the illusion of her frustration being anything but the sexual kind is broken when he circles his thumb over her clit. She’s close to being oversensitive, overstimulated, but he’s careful, winding her up slowly until his touch is not nearly enough. 

And that’s how he keeps her. Spread out on his cock, relentless in the fact that he refuses to go any faster, no matter what she does. When she tries to sit up and move, he presses her down flat with his palm. When she breaks and begs, he slows down. It’s safe to say that his pace, coupled with his diligent thumb, drives her slowly out of her mind--and, right when she’s on the cusp of calling it quits, he yanks her up by her asscheeks and gives her exactly what she’s been waiting for.

Her second orgasm comes on like a sudden storm, and when she finally comes out of the haze, Bellamy’s pressed to her front. He’s peppering her face with his lips; catches her mouth in a sloppy kiss. His arms are under her, hands cupped around her shoulders. He’s wound up, his control from earlier absolutely shattered. She squeezes her legs around him, too tired to do much else but subtly cheer him on to his own orgasm. It’s not long before he goes taut, thrusting several more times before letting out a gust of a sigh against her neck.

He rolls off her a moment later, swiping a hand over his sweaty forehead. There’s barely enough room on the cot for the both of them, but they somehow make it work.

“I should’ve pulled out,” he says, after a moment. He sounds guilty, like he betrayed her in some way, but he did exactly what Clarke wanted. He’s always doing what she wants, it seems, and for a second, she’s plunged into uncertainty. Is this what he wanted, too? 

“It’s fine,” she says, instead. “It was perfect. _You_ were perfect.” 

He nods, though something in his expression tells her he wants to argue this fact. Instead, he drapes the blanket over their cooling bodies and tucks an arm around her, holding her close. The contact is nice, if unnecessary, but she’s so warm. Safe, content. It’s laughably easy to drift off in his arms. 

When she wakes next, Bellamy is sitting on the edge of the cot. He’s wearing clothes again, just tucking his feet back into his boots. There’s no way to tell how long she slept, but she feels more rested than she has in weeks.

“You okay?” he asks, once he realizes she’s awake. His eyes have gone soft again.

And she smiles back, tired and brittle. If she’s being honest? “No,” she admits. “But I’m getting better.”

**Author's Note:**

> Did you dig it? I hope you did! :)


End file.
